Another Day Dawning
by Scarabsi
Summary: Sooner or later, he has to learn. He has to change. He can't continue on the way he is, or. . . or something horrible will happen. Or has it happened already? Rated T for implied violence.


**Headnotes:** This was written for Fanime-Sensei's Hetalia Romance Story Writing Contest. The prompt for this month was Russia/Lithuania. Definitely the hardest one for me so far! Hopefully it didn't come out unoriginal or boring. This is another one I don't have much prior experience with, so I don't know if I've just written something that's been rehashed a thousand times; I sure hope I haven't, haha.

This one is even shorter than the ones I wrote before. . . my fics are getting shorter and shorter. Gosh, I hope it's not under the word limit. . .

I can't believe I'm still hanging in here for round four, so thank you everyone who had ever previously voted for me in the past! It's been a blast. I hope you like this fic, and as always, I wish the best of luck to everyone else as well!

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**Another Day Dawning**

_like the waves crash on the sand, like a storm that will break any second. . ._

* * *

Today Russia was a citizen.

He went to bed a giant, the planet beneath his feet, and woke up on the side of a dirt road with a bottle in his hand.

He squinted at the dark, congealed substance inside the bottle and tossed it away, as though spiders were crawling out of it. (Oh, he _hoped_ spiders wouldn't crawl out of it.)

He watched other countries; watched them closely, wanted to find the parts of others that were better than him and have them, have those good things be his. They never seemed disoriented when they switched from overhead to magnified view. They knew where they were going and why, and went back whenever they were done.

What made Russia so different from them? How come every time it would take Russia by surprise? He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to wear these. . . these old, worn thin clothes that provided little warmth, or this heaviness in his body from a day of exhausted labor that he hadn't even done.

Had he ever taken a. . . a gun to a crowd of. . . faceless people, and then woke up the next morning and stormed a mansion to get shot at? He imagined that, right? He could feel the shots in the marrow of his bones. . . It didn't make sense. . . Oh no. His head was spinning in a nauseating way; didn't he have some work he should be getting to? His eyes stung and he rubbed at them with his dirty gloves.

If he was like yesterday, he would have a mansion full of friends to help him right now. He wouldn't have to fall painfully on his tailbone and feel his knees knocking against the ground; funny, when did his bones get so hard? There would be _someone_ holding him, helping him stand; Ukraine maybe, or Latvia (even if he would shake and cry while he did it). If worst came to it and nobody else would get near him that day, at least Belarus would support him, hissing into his ear the whole time and gripping his shoulders like a vice but he wouldn't be _alone_.

He looked down both ends of the road, then across the vast reaches of the fields around him, watching for any kind of movement. Only the wind blowing through the trees made any evidence to Russia that he hadn't tumbled into a photograph.

He bit his lip and punched at the ground. Where were all the people? Surely with such a huge population. . . so much work to be done. . . How could there be a place in his house that was empty like this? And, and, why was he _here_, instead of in a bustling, overpopulated city. . .

He pulled his knees to his chest in a protective curl. Then he waited. He searched the empty landscape every so often, but soon tired his eyes from searching and tried to sleep.

Maybe he would wake up back in his mansion? He had to, eventually. . . only sometimes, in the past, he would be stuck as a citizen or politician or diplomat for. . . days. And always he had been near enough to cities.

Russia wasn't actually a human, so he couldn't starve to death.

. . . Right?

Not as a citizen. Not just because he couldn't get physical food into his stomach.

But even in his mansion with silk and gold, he would feel brittle and hungry and. . .

No, Russia _wouldn't_ starve to death, because it is preposterous to think of such a thing. He had quite a lot of food, thank you very much, both metaphorically and physically! H. . . hunger was something that every nation would feel, and anemia, especially in this era of global warfare. . .

And, and even if Russia d. . . if Russia. . . wasted away. . . it wouldn't be for any stupid reason like being stuck in citizen mode and not knowing how to get back out!

He became aware of a pained wail dissipating through the area, and realized it was coming from him. He clenched his fists and tried not to think about the way the sound didn't ring, the way the emptiness of the land seemed to suck away the power of his voice.

And then he heard a different voice.

"_Russia! Thank. . . thank goodness!"_

He poked his head up and looked around; just a few feet away, running unsteadily toward him, was a person with bandages around his head and a slight limp. When did someone else get there?

As the person drew nearer, Russia realized with a start that it was Lithuania. It was difficult to recognize his shy friend with half his face wrapped in bandages, and the remaining half bruised purple.

He gaped blankly at Lithuania's blackened eye as Lithuania approached him, waving his arms. "I've been looking _everywhere_, what are you doing in a place like this?"

Russia weakly tried pushing himself up, but his legs had gone numb. With an exasperated sigh, Lithuania grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up with quick and efficient movements. "Nevermind, come back home, your sisters are worried sick."

"What happened to your face?" Russia asked.

Lithuania flinched and turned away. His expression was darker than Russia had ever seen it. "You know," he mumbled.

"I don't know," Russia insisted; he tried to grab Lithuania's shoulders to shake them, but Lithuania curled away from his hands with a movement so quick it looked almost subconscious. Russia felt something in him crack softly at the rejection. "Did someone hit you? Who was it? I'll go and pay them back tenfold-"

"Please, stop!" Lithuania held up a hand to cover his head from Russia's view; his shoulders curled and he seemed to get smaller. "Stop asking, please, it's not funny. Let's go home."

Something was nagging at Russia from the back of his mind, but he was so hurt from having secrets kept from him that he couldn't understand it. "Why won't you tell me?" he cried, clenching his fists again, "Why not?"

Lithuania whipped his hand down. "I shouldn't have to tell you, Russia, it was you!" he yelled.

All the air seemed to get sucked away. Russia stared at Lithuania, at those honest eyes, trying to understand why. . . why he would. . .

"You. . . did this. Don't you remember?" Lithuania said, his temper fizzing out as quickly as it had flared.

"I didn't," Russia said. "I didn't. I never would! How can you say that! I didn't!"

Lithuania blinked. He curled up again. "If. . . if you're trying to. . ."

Russia tried reaching for Lithuania's cheek, but he flinched away again. Russia wanted to scream. "I wouldn't, I wouldn't! You're my friend. Why would I hurt my friends?"

Lithuania's eyes were so big, they always were. They hadn't always had this blank glaze over them; Russia tried to understand why his eyes looked so different but all he could think of was that it wasn't him, he would never, how could Lithuania even say that!

There were small tears rolling down Lithuania's purpled cheek. He drew in a great breath and forced his head high, biting his lip so hard his jaw trembled. "O-okay. I. . . I must have remembered wrong," he said. Then he forced a smile on his face; it was the most horrible smile Russia had ever seen, like something carved by a sick sculptor who wanted dreams to die. It trembled on the edges, like it would fall off Lithuania's face any minute, and Russia almost wished that it would.

"Of. . . of course it wasn't you," Lithuania continued, lips trembling with that smile that could devour the sun. "Don't cry, Russia. It's. . . it's okay, really. Don't cry over me."

He reached out with shaky hands and slowly brought them to Russia's face, wiping gently at his eyes with trembling thumbs. Russia hadn't even noticed before, but his face was covered with fat tears. Somehow, listening to Lithuania saying those things to him only made him want to cry more.

"Come on," Lithuania said quietly, "your sisters. . . e-everyone, is worried about you. We should go home. Let's go home."

"I don't know how," Russia whispered. This wanted to make him cry, too. He can't do things, can he? He just. . . can't do them. Nothing good. He can't do anything.

Lithuania dusted his fingers down Russia's arms and said nothing for a while. Then he took his hand. "I'll take you back. I'll show you how."

Russia's heart swelled and he couldn't think of what to say; he just nodded and squeezed Lithuania's hand.

Lithuania still looked so unsure, and his big eyes were as clouded as ever. Russia wondered if they were clouded from all the times they _didn't_ cry. He was taking big, slow breaths.

After some thought, Russia grabbed one end of his scarf and wrapped it around Lithuania's neck. "Thank you," he said. It wasn't what he wanted to say; it wasn't big enough, grateful enough, to. . . to encompass how he felt, but it was better than nothing.

Lithuania tried to smile again. It was better this time. It still wasn't a good smile, but it was better.

"Do you hate me?" Russia asked.

Lithuania closed his eyes and concentrated on getting them back to the mansion. As they grew away from the world of human individuals and back into the world of international giants, Lithuania whispered his reply.

The word was lost in the wind. Russia tightened his hold on that benevolent hand of his savior, hoping like he had never hoped before.


End file.
